I keep licking until she’s twitching from the overstimulation, then I slow, pulling back just enough for her to see my mouth wet with her.
That’s when I grab the phone, the black screen catching her flushed face and wide, wild eyes. “That could be you,” I tell her, voice low and steady. “But only from us. No one else gets to hurt you. No one else gets to make you feel like this.”
Her breath still stutters, chest rising hard, falling slow. Not all fear.
“This wasn’t just for fun,” I say, my thumb sliding over the fresh barbells until she jerks in the cuffs. A muffled whine leaks out against the tape, her body twitching as the sting lances through her. “It was to see if you could look at something like that and still stand. To see if you could take it when it’s ours to give.”
I let the moment hang, watching her wrestle with whether to look away or meet me head-on. The tape keeps her silent, but her eyes do all the talking.
Her eyes sharpen, defiance flickering but not replacing the pull between us. Good. I lean in, the mask brushing her cheek. “Only we hurt you. Only we degrade you. You’re ours, Agatha. Every scream. Every gasp. Every drop of blood.”
17
Agatha
The cuffs biteinto my wrists from the weight of my body pulling against them, and my arms ache from holding them above my head. His sinful mouth leaves my skin hot and flushed. The bastard’s still close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, his shadow swallowing mine on the door. He undoes one wrist; the metal clink sounding loud in the air between us. My arm drops like lead at my side, the sudden rush of blood making my fingers tingle.
He steps even closer so our chests are touching. His body is a wall in front of me, his masked face hovering above mine. “Be good or we'll have to do much worse,” he says, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. His breath grazes my ear. “Count to one hundred and then you can undo your ankles and leave.”
He’s distracted, his hand working at the other cuff. I slide my free hand down, fingers tracing the seam of his pocket. I expect him to catch me. I expect him to grab my wrist and twist it until I drop whatever I'm about to find. But his attention stays on the lock, and my hand slips inside.
No wallet. No keys. My fingertips close around something hard and cool. I pull it out slowly, my palm hiding the weight of it. A ring. Thick, masculine. I curl my hand into a fist and keep it there, praying he doesn’t notice the way my arm tightens or my breathing catches.
He doesn’t. He undoes my other wrist and steps back just enough for the air to move again. My fingers itch to grab the knife on the counter and drive it into him, not to kill him but maybe just wound him a bit. My whole body sings with the urge to turn and fight, but the weight of the ring in my palm changes everything. The mystery of who the hell these men are outweighs the rush of payback. If I hurt him now, I lose my best clue.
I just came while watching someone get murdered. My stomach turns, but my thighs are still warm, still slick. Was it real? VelvetNoose. That is the name he called her. I’ll never know if it’s fake or real, whether she really was VelvetNoose. The truth is, I don’t know who most of them are beyond their handles and their wallets. Any one of them could be a face behind a mask.
I start counting under my breath. One. Two. Three. At forty-eight, I feel my heartbeat slow. At seventy-five, my shoulders start to loosen. At ninety-eight, I'm already bending forward to undo the buckles on my ankles. The locks are simple, and they click open easily under my fingers.
I hook my fingers under the edge of the tape and rip it free. The adhesive burns across my skin, pulling at the corners of my mouth, but the first breath of cool air is worth it. My lips feel raw, sticky, but at least they’re mine again.
I step away from the door and look down at what’s left of my clothes. Shredded fabric. My bra, a limp carcass on the ground. My leggings are in tatters. Fucking asshole.
I pull my phone from my bag on the floor and order a dress, bra, and panties off Instacart. Nothing fancy, just somethingthat will get me home without flashing the neighborhood. I set the delivery instructions to leave it at the door. Kira can't know someone broke into her shop because of me.
While I wait, I scoop up the ruined clothes and shove them deep into the trash can in the back. I take down the restraint system from over the door, folding the straps in on themselves until they fit in my bag. I'm not leaving that behind. That will be mine now. I clean up the needles and packaging from my freshly pierced nipples, tossing the trash into the same bag with my clothes.
On the shelf behind the counter is the saline spray Kira used the last time when she pierced my kitty cat. I grab it, spraying each nipple with a hiss between my teeth. The sting radiates up my chest, but I'm more worried about infection. That masked fucker had them in his mouth right after he stabbed me. If I lose a nipple because of him, there will be hell to pay.
The knock at the front door makes my pulse jump. I peek through the blinds. The driver has already set the bag on the sidewalk and is heading back to their car. I slip to the door, open it fast, and grab the bag before anyone walking by gets a free show. I drop the ring into the cup of my new bra, tucking it deep against my skin before pulling the dress over my head. The cotton is cheap, thin enough that the outline of the barbell piercings is visible through the fabric, but I don’t care. It’s better than walking home naked.
I carry the trash out to the back, the alley swallowing me in the stink of dumpsters and damp brick. The bag hits the bottom with a dull thud, burying the evidence where Kira will never see it. Back inside, I scan the shop. Counters wiped. No sign of the mess. No sign of me being here after hours at all.
By the time I lock up and step out into the night, my mind is already working. I'm going to figure out who these men are andwhat they want. I'm not a meek lamb waiting for the slaughter. I'm a piranha, and I bite.
The ring sitsin the center of my desk, lit by the bluish glow of my laptop screen. The band is etched with barbed wire, each twist sharp and precise, a skull sitting dead center like it's grinning. I’ve got it balanced on a folded towel so it doesn’t scratch the surface. Not that I care about the desk; it’s the principle. Evidence belongs on a clean stage.
Up close, it’s heavier than I thought. The barbed wire isn’t just etched; it’s raised, jagged in a way that you can feel when you run your finger over it. The skull is perfect in its ugliness, the teeth worn smooth from touch. A man’s ring. Masculine. Worn often.
I snap a photo from three angles and upload it into a reverse image search. The browser spins, thinking, before spitting out page after page of cheap knockoffs. Halloween props. Costume jewelry. Gas station biker rings sold next to vape juice and scratch-offs. None of them match the craftsmanship, the way this one feels like it was made for someone specific.
I narrow my search. Custom jewelers. Vintage dealers. Motorcycle club merch. The results shrink but get more interesting. Photos on obscure forums. Threads full of guys arguing about whether a particular skull casting came out of a shop in Arizona or a garage in rural Pennsylvania.
I click through one blurry image after another, scanning for the barbed wire detail. Twice I think I’ve found it, but the proportions are wrong.
The clock in the corner of my screen says it’s 9:17 a.m., but I haven’t slept since the shop. I’m not tired. I’m lit from the inside, my brain running hot.
I type in new keywords: “custom skull ring barbed wire band masculine.” A new set of results pops up. This time, the fourth image down stops me cold.
